keep the fire going bright
by analine
Summary: The thing about Dean's deal is that it makes everything feel desperate, like the world is ending, every single second of every day.


**Title:** keep the fire going bright  
**Pairing:** Sam/Dean  
**Warnings**: some language, non-graphic sexual content  
**Rating:** R  
**Word Count:**~4,100

**Notes**: I really love the idea of the boys squatting in abandoned houses, and so I started thinking about a big, old house, with a fireplace that Dean would get working even though Sam tells him they shouldn't bother, and somehow, this turned into another S3 get-together fic. ^_~ (And it goes without saying, I'm sure, but comments are always greatly appreciated. )

* * *

The thing about Dean's deal is that it makes everything feel desperate, like the world is ending, every single second of every day.

Sam, of course, is supposed to stop it, would do absolutely anything to stop it except that he can't.

He can't because he doesn't know how, because Dean won't tell him how, because Dean is an idiot who is convinced that this is something that he has to see through, and it's making Sam a little crazy. It feels like all their time is running out, like he should be cramming everything he can into these last ten, eight, seven, six months, but he's not. He's not doing anything. And it's driving him insane, slowly, and very, very quickly at the same time. Hours and days and weeks and months that just pass by, with nothing at all to show for any of it, except maybe a job here and there, another motel room to close the door on.

There's no motel room tonight though, because they're squatting; it's this huge, two-story that somehow Bobby got the jump on knowing would be empty. Sometimes Sam is amazed at what his life has become, what it's been forever, maybe. The things that pass for normal for them, picking locks and squatting in abandoned houses, for one thing… It doesn't always seem crazy, lots of times it seems perfectly normal, but when it does? It feels really freaking _insane_, all of it.

This particular abandoned house has running water, which is nice, and no power (less nice) but they picked up a couple of candles at the Stop & Go downtown earlier, so they're set.

Dean is sitting on the hardwood floor in the living room, a couple of pillows tucked up behind his back, furniture being scarce as it is in these parts. He's flipping through yesterday's paper, reminding Sam that they're supposed to be looking for a job. They haven't bothered with the candles yet; the light outside has just started to fade.

Dean is squinting at the local news section, his brow crinkling up in the center, and the sight lodges somewhere in Sam's chest, right up under his ribs.

"Hey," he says. "Find anything yet?"

"Nope, total bust," Dean answers, and Sam's heart sinks as he lowers himself onto the dusty floor.

It's not that he necessarily _wants_a job, but… At the same time, hunting is what they do best, and not having anything to hunt feels like one more thing that isn't going right.

"Oh, wait, says here a lemur attacked a mail carrier outside Austin." Dean raises his eyebrows. "That could be something?"

"I don't think so, Dean. People keep those things as pets, it's probably nothing."

Dean sighs, and in the half-light he sets the paper down next to him.

"Yeah, you're right. I've got nothing."

* * *

Sam takes the first (cold) shower, and when he comes back downstairs, the candles are lit, and Dean is lying on his back on the floor, poking his head into the fireplace that they'd already discussed would not be a good idea to try to actually light, low profile and everything.

Seeing his brother lying there reminds Sam of any number of afternoons, the sun high in the sky, handing over wrenches and ratchets and god knows what else as Dean whiles away the hours underneath the Impala. He hates how nostalgic he is for it, hates that Dean has already discussed his estate plan for the car, hates pretty much everything.

"Found some wood on the back porch," Dean says, his voice echoing up into the chimney. "It's a little wet, but I think it'll do the trick."

He slides out, black soot all over his face, even around his eyes. He looks like some kind of deranged raccoon, and Sam smiles. Okay, fine, so he hates everything other than _this_.

"What?"

Sam's smile widens. "Nothing, you just," he says, and extends a hand down to the floor to help his brother up, feeling the pull in his muscles, the familiar balance of weight. "You've got stuff on your face."

"And that's funny how?" Dean grumbles, but he's smiling a little.

He lets go of Sam's hand, and now that's covered in black, too. Dean runs a dirty hand over his forehead, which explains a lot about his current appearance, while Sam looks down at his hand like he has no idea what to do with it, like part of him honestly isn't sure he's going to wash it off. Stuff like this has been happening all the time lately, stupid little nothing moments that shouldn't mean anything at all, but that hit him like a punch in the gut sometimes when he thinks about Dean being gone.

He keeps right on smiling though, grateful for the semi-darkness of the room.

"So what's going on with you?" Dean asks a minute later, as he loads up the fireplace with mostly dry wood.

"Nothing, why?"

Dean gives a little half-shrug, and pours lighter fluid over the wood, throws in a match. The fire whooshes up in a flash, and then dies down a little.

"Sometimes you just get this look on your face, you know? Like you've seen a ghost or something."

Sam stares at the fire, playing dumb. "I don't know what you mean."

"Yeah, okay," Dean says, and doesn't push it.

* * *

Sam finishes off a beer from the cooler, which really isn't keeping anything cool at all anymore, while Dean takes his turn in the shower. He pokes at the fire a little, too, and tries not to let his mind wander. Tries not to see hellfire in the flames.

It works, just barely, but Sam's relieved when he hears Dean's feet on the stairs, and he's even more relived when he actually sees his face come around the corner.

Dean is barefoot, and his wet feet leave messy footprints on the floor.

His face lights up in a grin when Sam hands him a beer.

"Thanks for starting without me," he says, eyeing up the empty bottle next to Sam's hip approvingly.

Then he settles down next to him, verging on invasion of personal space, and the fire crackles and pops in front of them.

It's bright and beautiful and normal for a while and Sam doesn't spend any time at all thinking about how they might never do this again. How this might be the last time they ever light a fire in an abandoned house together on a chilly night in central Texas, between hunts, drinking beers in companionable silence and not talking about the future, not even thinking about it because the future is forever from now, and they've got more important things on their minds.

* * *

Three beers and a bunch of shots of whiskey later, Sam's limbs feel loose and his mind feels lazy as he pokes at the fire with the stick Dean had brought in from the yard. He'd offered it to Sam with a ridiculous smile on his face, and it reminds Sam of when they were kids, sticks for roasting marshmallows. Of course they're not kids at all anymore, they're adults with really stupid, really complicated adult problems.

Right now it's as if none of that matters though.

He feels a hand on his shoulder, and realizes that Dean has come up behind him.

"C'mon, Sammy, you're going to hurt someone with that," Dean says, taking the stick out of his hands, and before Sam knows it, he's sitting down again, leaning back against the wall, and Dean's right there next to him, right where he belongs.

It's downright cozy, their little beer fort on the floor. They've got the sleeping bags and extra blankets out and everything.

The flames are doing weird things to the space in front of him, making the shadows dance along the floor and along the wall.

Sam can feel the heat from Dean's body next to him, can hear him breathing, too. He can see Dean's chest rising and falling under his t-shirt. Sam chooses this moment to imagine Dean's last breath, to imagine the space next to him empty and dead and cold, and the wave of hurt that throbs in his chest nearly takes his breath away. It's all-encompassing, and horrible, and Sam really wants it to stop.

"Shit," he says. He buries his face in the bend of his elbow for a second and tries to breathe, tries to reel it all back in.

And then Dean's arm is around him, and his voice is soft and steady in his ear, telling him he's okay, everything's okay, and for a second Sam thinks maybe it is.

"Remind me to never do shots with you again, okay?" Dean says.

Sam laughs, and leans against his arm. "Sorry," he offers quietly.

"It's nothing I'm not used to, but man," Dean says, and shakes his head. "You know, you could just talk to me. Tell me what's going on in that giant head of yours."

Sam straightens up at that, looks over and gives Dean a weird look.

"What?"

"Nothing, I just didn't think you'd-"

"What, that I'd want you to tell me what's going on? That I'd want to know why all the sudden you're such a sad drunk? Come on, what do you take me for."

Dean smiles and Sam feels it in his chest, a tiny little twinge of what could be hope, or could be despair; it's kind of hard to tell the difference sometimes.

Dean nudges at Sam's leg with his bare toes, and raises his eyebrows encouragingly, and the twinge flares up again, big and bold. Sam thinks it's definitely hope. Probably. He stares into Dean's face, and the fire flickers.

"I just feel like we're running out of time," he says. "I think about it every time I look at you."

"Oh god," Dean says, and Sam feels a surge of frustration.

"Because you're going to be _gone_, Dean. You're going to be gone, and I don't know what I'm supposed to do about that!"

"There's nothing for you to do, Sam, that's what I've been trying to tell you."

"There _has _to be something for me to do. I'm not going to watch you die."

"There isn't," Dean says, and the fact that he looks genuinely disappointed only makes everything worse. "I'm sorry."

"There has to be _something_, Dean." His thoughts are starting to feel jumbled, out of order. "I don't know, maybe it's not just because you're going to be gone," Sam says. He should probably just shut up, but he doesn't. "I think maybe I've felt like this for a long time. I think maybe it's always hurt a little. It's just worse now."

"You're losing me, Sammy," Dean says, and Sam thinks he's losing himself a little, too.

And Dean's just _there -_ solid, and firmly in place next to him, a permanent fixture, like a satellite in orbit. It's really hard to imagine him going anywhere like this. Sam looks down at his hand, which is still dirty with soot from the fireplace. Without really thinking he runs his thumb over Dean's cheek. It smudges a little, and Sam stares at the dark mark for a moment, while Dean stares right back at him, first with wide eyes, and then with narrow, dark ones.

"Seriously, Sam. What's going on?"

"I don't know," Sam says, honestly. Dean closes his eyes just as the fire flares up, and Sam can see the dark circles there, can see all the imperfections of his skin. Then the fire flickers, and sweeps it all away somewhere else, and it's just shadows again. "I feel like I'm going crazy sometimes."

"You and me both, believe me," Dean says.

There's still a tiny smudge of black on his face, just under his cheekbone, and Sam feels a rush of warmth rising up his neck.

"I mean, I look at you, and sometimes I'm not even thinking about Hell, but I just… I imagine you being gone, really _gone_, and I think…" Sam stops, concentrates on breathing for a second.

"What?"

"I think that if it hurts this much when you're still here, then I'm really scared for what's coming."

"You'll be fine," Dean says, but his voice is tight.

"You don't know that, Dean."

"Sure I do, Sammy. I know you, and I know you'll be okay."

"You don't know _anything_," Sam says darkly, feeling like a moody teenager again.

"Sam, look at me," Dean says, and Sam does.

He looks long and hard, and the longer he looks, the more reckless he feels, and the more reckless he feels, the more tenuous he can feel his hold becoming. Everything he's been trying to protect his whole life, his sense of right and wrong - he can feel it all unraveling in front of him, right there at their feet.

He's not even sure he remembers anymore what it is that he'd been trying to protect anyway, or if it even matters anymore. Maybe the answer has always been right here, and he's just been too busy fucking around killing things, or trying to maintain the status quo to notice.

Because honestly? Dean's lips are _right here_ and there's a part of him that's always thought that if he just knew what they tasted like, what they felt like pressed against his skin, he could do _anything_. Save the world, save Dean from his deal, anything at all.

"You'll be fine," Dean says again, with more feeling, like he might actually believe it, but Sam's not really listening.

And then he just leans in and presses his lips to Dean's like he knows exactly what he's doing, as if this is just one more fucked up thing they do. It's nowhere near as terrifying as he always thought it'd be.

Dean tastes like whiskey, sharp and bitter and burning, and Sam keeps the kiss going as long as he can without taking a real breath, just kind of sucking in tiny bursts of air between breaks in contact. The whole thing happens so fast, and keeps happening so fast, it's kind of hard to process the important details. Like the fact that this is _Dean_, and the fact that Sam is actually sitting here kissing him, and that Dean is kissing him _back_.

It feels surprisingly, shockingly, normal.

All the same, Sam is a realist, and he's pretty sure he's completely screwed, but he doesn't say that, what he says is, "I think I've wanted to do that since I was twelve years old."

Then he pulls back and looks into Dean's face, feeling giddy and breathless and hopped up on adrenaline and not nearly as scared as he should be.

"You _think_?" Dean says, one eyebrow raised in caution, like he can't decide on the joke he's going to turn this into yet.

"Yeah," Sam says, because he's sure now. "Yeah, I really do."

"Okay, well," Dean says, and Sam realizes that the front of his t-shirt is fisted up in Dean's hand. He doesn't even remember that happening, but it kind of turns his insides to jelly, thinking about it.

"Me too," Dean finishes, and then he backpedals a little, but doesn't stop. "I mean, not when _I_was twelve, that would be, _fuck_, I just meant-"

"Dean," Sam says, feeling something helpless welling up in his chest, because he's pretty sure he has no idea how to talk about this right now, and he's fairly certain Dean doesn't either.

And whatever that helpless thing is, it's also fearless, apparently, because he kisses Dean again, like he's serious from the very beginning this time. None of that first kiss, feeling-around crap. Sam kisses him hard, finds Dean's tongue and wrestles it down until Dean is making tiny, urgent noises in the back of his throat, until his hands are on Sam's neck, pressing against his bare skin, and Hell or no Hell, Sam recognizes that this is quickly becoming a situation that they're not going to be able to come back from. He's just not sure that he cares.

"You're drunk," Dean says against his lips, pretty belatedly, if you ask Sam, but then Dean presses their foreheads together, his hands framing Sam's face, steadying him, and something twists in Sam's stomach. It feels weirdly more intimate than the kiss, swapping breath like this in the tiny space between them.

"I'm not drunk," Sam says eventually, and then he tilts his head, and licks at the seam of Dean's lips until they open, experimenting. Dean leans into the touch, seeking him out, and Sam thinks his heart might beat out of his chest, that he might just float away if he's not careful. "Well, okay, maybe a little," he concedes, "but it doesn't matter."

Dean grunts at that, and then says, "You think I'm dying."

"You are dying, Dean. But that's not what this is about."

"Fine, but I don't believe you."

"Does it matter?" Sam tries, hopefully.

"You're crazy to even ask me that. You know that, right?"

"Maybe," Sam says and nods, his heart going crazy, beating double, triple time. "Yeah, maybe. But I don't care."

"You don't care that this is possibly the stupidest thing we've ever done?"

"Not really, no."

Dean leans in towards Sam's face at that. He hesitates for a second, and then presses their lips together. Sam lets him take over, and then things get kind of messy and rough and intense after that, and Sam is not surprised at all. He's pretty sure Dean couldn't _not_be intense if his life depended on it, and he's really, really not complaining.

At some point Sam ends up flat on his back, splayed out across Dean's sleeping bag, his shoulder blades pressed hard into the floor, and his head squashed up against Dean's pillow. Dean is straddling his hips with his knees, just hovering there, not moving, eyes blown wide and dark, staring down at Sam from underneath those ridiculous lashes. And then he lowers his hips, and starts to _move_, and Sam's world goes bright and electric for a while.

A few minutes pass without Sam really realizing it; his whole body is humming, just kind of lost in the sensations. And then Dean stops. Freezes, really.

Sam blinks up at him, wondering if this is the moment where it all goes south, where they both decide that this is completely insane and never speak to each other again, or any number of other doomsday scenarios that have suddenly manifested, fully formed, into Sam's consciousness.

"You have to promise me something," Dean says finally, urgently, right into Sam's ear.

"Of course, anything," Sam says quickly, and Dean laughs.

"Sammy, I'm serious." His voice is low and rough and it settles somewhere deep inside Sam's gut, coiled up and heavy.

"You have to promise me you're not just doing this because of- Because of what's going to happen to me."

"No, Dean," Sam says. His breath hitches as Dean rocks his hips up against his thigh, and relief blossoms in his chest because because oh, _god_, they're going to keep doing this.

"I mean, yes," Sam says, a little breathless. "I promise. That's not what this is about."

"You're sure?" Dean asks. "Because I-"

"Yes, Dean, I'm sure, now-"

"Oh, thank god," Dean says quickly.

And then he shoves his hand down Sam's pants.

Within about a second and a half, Sam is panting and writhing, clutching at the floor and the sleeping bag and anything he can find, and pretty much dying a thousand happy deaths on the inside because this is kind of everything he's ever wanted in life – Dean's hand wrapped around his cock, Dean's hips rocking up and down against his side. He's instantly so close he's shaking, but he's trying to hold on because he really, really doesn't want this to end.

"_Dean_," Sam says earnestly, predictable and embarrassing, and god only knows what else, but he doesn't really care, because it's perfectly clear to Sam in this moment that this is what's been missing from his life, without any doubt, because being with Dean like this, hearing the needy, urgent noises Dean is making against his neck without a care in the world is the most perfect thing he's ever experienced.

* * *

Sam wakes up twice that night, once to Dean asleep next to him, out cold, his breathing rhythmic and heavy while the last remnants of the fire crackle and hiss in the fireplace, and then again when the darkness has just started to give way to light, to a cold, empty room.

Panic sets in immediately, and before Sam can even think, he's on his feet, moving through the unfamiliar house blindly, the haze of sleep giving way to the realization that yeah, something did happen last night, and _god_, it was amazing. Unfortunately, that doesn't stop the fear and panic from making his throat go dry and his heart thump wildly in his chest at the fact that right now, Dean is not here.

He opens the door to see if the car's still parked out front, and is surprised to find Dean sitting there on the front steps of this house that isn't theirs, his jacket pulled tight around his chest.

He starts when Sam comes and sits next to him, looking startled and a little sleepy. It's cold. Sam can see their breath puffing out like smoke in front of them.

"Hey," Sam says. He wonders how long Dean's been out here. "Couldn't sleep?"

Dean shrugs, and Sam scoots a little closer, for warmth. He presses their shoulders and their knees together, and doesn't feel any different than it always has, which is a bit of a relief, he figures, status quo and all.

And then Dean stares very pointedly at his feet, takes a deep breath, and says, "Look, Sam, I feel like I've screwed up here, like I've let you down and I-"

And Sam just leans over and kisses him, just presses their lips together, and waits for Dean to respond. He does, and they blossom into a slow morning stretch of a kiss, waking up slowly, seeking out what's familiar and then putting down roots, slow and deliberate, intertwined and inextricable.

"You've never let me down, Dean, never," Sam says against Dean's lips, and Dean mumbles something that may or may not be _damn it, Sammy_, and presses their lips together again.

And even though Sam is quickly realizing that it's freezing out here and all he's wearing is a t-shirt and thin pajama bottoms he thinks he doesn't ever want to leave this place, this one moment where the world is finally in sync with him, with them. There's no way he's letting this go, not for Hell, not for anything.

_I'm going to __**stop **__this, I'm going to save you_, Sam thinks with a grim determination that he feels right down to his bones, but he doesn't say anything. He doesn't need to, because he's said it a dozen times already, and he knows Dean doesn't want to hear it again, at least not right now.

And then Dean is running his hand down Sam's bare arm and saying, "Jesus, it's freezing out here. C'mon, Sammy."

Once they're back inside, Dean turns to him, and his eyes are warm, and fond in that way that's made Sam's heart speed up a little in his chest for as long as he can remember. Dean grabs a blanket from the floor, and tosses it at Sam's face. It smells like Dean, like both of them, and Sam pulls it around his shoulders, tugs it up tight under his chin.

"What do you say we get this fire going again?" Dean asks, and smiles, and Sam just smiles back, feeling that special brand of content that he's only ever felt when his big brother is here, smiling at him like he's the only person in the world worth looking at, worth doing anything for. Sam feels it all the way down his spine, all the way to his toes.

It's not long before the fire is raging again, filling the room with warmth and light and life. It crackles like fireworks, like morning glories and sparklers on warm summer nights, like shooting stars, and under no circumstances resembles hellfire, not even a little.

**end**


End file.
